Page 40 of Renegade Ruin

“You okay, Bish?” he asks.

“Fine,” I snap, jerking up my glove to provide him with a target.

His brows raise, proving I’m not fooling anyone here. “You sure? You just about took my hand off.”

“Just throw the damn ball, Carson,” I sigh.

We throw a few more warm up tosses and then slide over to the row of mounds where I squat behind a plate to catch Carson’s pitches. I ignore the way my knee clicks and the burn of my thighs and calves, silently berating myself for not putting in the work during the off season. I may have been in the gym a few times a week, but I was more focused on pain and forgetting than I was on properly stretching. Now I’m paying the price.

We work on calls, signs, and techniques with the pitching staff and I’m thankful he’s currently set to be our ace. He’s exactly what this team needs. He might present himself as the class clown, but he’s focused, adaptable, and easily one of the best pitchers in the league. I still have no idea how his name ended up on the list of draftees, because there is no way Atlanta didn’t put up a hell of a fight to keep him. Though given the way the rest of these guys on the field are showing off for the staff, he’s going to have a run for his money to keep his place at the top. They may not be my Renegades, but we’ve got a solid bullpen.

I slip my hand between my legs and Carson reads my sign. To his credit, he throws a perfect sinker, but instead of framing it, I flinch and the ball slips from my glove, hitting the dirt and rolling behind me.

A string of muttered curses slips free as I flip my mask off and pop up to field the ball.It’s a rookie mistake and not the first one I’ve made since we slid over.

Carson shakes his head and starts toward me as I bend over and reach for the ball. If the way his brows are furrowed tells meanything, this will either be hilarious or end with my fist in his face. It’s really a toss-up.

Carson tugs his glove from his hand and stows it under his arm, his free hand finding his hip. “You gonna tell me what the fuck is going on with you?”

Okay, so we’re going with fists.

I stand up and offer him the ball, ignoring his comment. Mostly because this is a man who I respect a hell of a lot, and what I’m going through is none of his damn business.

“Get back on the mound, Whitmore.”

He takes the ball and puts his hands up in surrender. “Listen, I know it’s our first week back, but even I can see you aren’t okay.”

My jaw tightens and I grind my teeth as I grit out, “Drop it, Carson.”

Hearing the lack of humor in my tone, he backs away and slips his glove back on, throwing the ball into the pocket a few times. “Fine. But I didn’t come here to lose.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Carson glares at me, making sure I know I’m the problem. “All I’m saying is I didn’t work every back door deal to make it to this team in order to lose.”

My mind works to process his words. Backdoor deals? When it clicks, my brows reach my hairline. “You volunteered for this?”

He narrows his gaze, but the smirk that paints his lips is one of a kid getting away with pulling one over on his parents. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Why?”

“Get your head out of your ass and I’ll tell you.” Carson turns away from me and the mound and starts toward the opposite end of the practice field. “I’m going to throw with Smitty for a bit. Let me know if you want to talk or need help dislodging your head so we can get on the same page.”

My mouth drops open slightly, but I catch myself and press my lips together into a tight line as he leaves me standing there like an idiot. He’s drawing a line in the sand, and I can’t blame him. As our starting pitcher, he deserves someone who can meet his level of dedication to this team and right now, that’s not me.

Unfortunately for me, his actions will reflect who he believes should be behind the plate.

Fuck.

Do better. Jackson adds salt to the wound.

My gaze follows Carson as he joins a circle of pitchers and catchers standing at the opposite end of the practice field. They welcome him with open arms, but that’s not what adds insult to injury. As they part to let him join the group, I catch a glimpse of the person they’re surrounding, laughing like they’re old pals.

Standing there in another one of her cock teasing skirts—this one in charcoal gray—and with her bouncing curls tied up in a pony is Willow.

She hasn’t made much of a presence at the field over the last week, but the few times she has stopped by, she’s made it a point to spend at least five to ten minutes chatting with the team. They flock to her, even the married guys. And not in a creepy or sexual way—those stares are reserved for me and me alone. They just can’t help but be pulled into her vortex of infectious positivity.

Everyone except me. I keep my distance.

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